On regrets and their opposites

I have regrets, I’m sure everyone does.

Some of the ones I have are easily remedied, or so they seem.
I mean, there’s no reason to regret not telling someone something
if it is still possible to tell them. But I simply cannot seem to do it.

I write songs about feelings or dreams I have, and never share them.

Or if I do share them, I share them rarely. I’m
not sure why exactly, but I find it far more difficult to share information
about my thoughts and feelings, my internal life, than I find sharing
details about my physical life and activities.

I’ll freely admit to random embarrassing facts, and even to odd things I’ve
done well before sharing a song or poem I’ve written.

The only ones I have managed to share date from years ago, and they
have worn a comfortable spot in my mind, been polished smooth and clean
as perfect as obsession can make them. Perhaps that’s why I can share them–they simply don’t trigger that anxious quiver at the thought of sharing or performing because they are at the peak of possibility for their existence.

Or perhaps as they age over time the words and tunes ring less strongly in my heartscape. Maybe I can share them because their rhythm has gentled, slowed, lost the urgency of creation. The fierce flame of emotion that propels these odd things to life fades over time. So I suppose the soft glow they have left when I’ve held them close for a long time feels less… awkward, noticeable, to share.

Because as much as I may appear to act out or act up, I am terrified of attention. Nothing makes me break out in a cold sweat like the thought of many people, especially those I do not know, noticing me, looking at me. I hate to be the center of attention. I can think of nothing more terrifying than a loss of privacy, of the ability to fade into the background whensoever I should wish.

Yet, I also crave attention. I seek acknowledgment.
I wish for those around me to like me, and I enjoy time spent speaking with them. It’s so bizarre. I don’t know why this odd split exists within me, or how it might have begun. I wonder though.

I do regret not doing my best for fear of ‘showing off’ or being noticed.
I do not regret the things being a quiet person in the background have allowed me to experience. I love being called a good listener. I just hope some day I can also enjoy being called a good talker, perhaps

In the vein of sharing things before they are ‘just-so’ or ‘perfect’ here is a doodle of a song I began some time ago, that still echoes in my mind, waiting to be finished and polished.

Never will can a all questions queries be met
with a clearer answer
Nor can any every triolet minuet
meet play for every dancer

Busy, busy-bodies though they are be
never miss many flowers
And they can never visit many all the trees
no matter in their waking hours

then, just a line of a started stanza/verse/step, the rest crossed out, rejected:

Life is a journey, so they say
walking further each day
we a New paths or followed new day

Who knows if this song will ever properly be born, as songs ought to be–finished and performed. Oh well.

Writing in strikeout was struck either in the initial jotting or while adding it to this post. Writing in italics was added or altered while adding it in.


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